Whether or not you care—and you should—I am the textbook definition of a man of culture. All of my photos are black-and-white. I watched a movie with Woody Allen in it. I have been to at least four museums. I thrice ate a croissant and once a bowl of curried lentils. And yes, I have written a handful of haikus in my time.

You, poor reader—yes, you—know nothing about the travesty you bring to the ancient Japanese culinary art of sushi. I know this because I wrote some haikus one fateful day nine years ago, in fourth grade. The experience turned me into something of a connoisseur of authentic Japanese culture—more than you can ever hope to be, you plebeian. This is coming from someone who has spent an hour once planning a hypothetical trip to Tokyo before getting bored and scrapping it, someone who has watched at least five episodes of Dragon Ball Z just for cultural background, someone with that Japanese wave poster on my wall because it’s just cool, man, it really speaks to me. I spent a cumulative twenty minutes over three days searching Japanese terms related to sushi just to know more than you about it.

You simple fool, you can’t even fathom the mistakes you make. You pick up your disposable wooden chopsticks—not even buying your own reusable lacquered set, the horror—and dip your sushi rice-side down into soy sauce. Didn’t you know you are supposed to use it only on the fish, and only as much as I dictate is culturally appropriate? You eat rolled “sushi” with the rice on the outside instead of the inside? Have you no respect? Don’t get me started on adding cooked fish and shellfish to this culinary masterpiece. You utter imbecile, did you think that you can just adapt food for new tastes? Food isn’t about enjoyment or experimentation, you simpleton, it’s about me.